a nook of one's own

in praise of beautiful authentic reading spaces and how to make yours imperfectly perfect

Apart from the obvious — food, water, oxygen, shelter, occasional head-strokes — the only thing I have yearned for consistently throughout my life is a perfect and comfortable place to read. And I finally found one last weekend at Charleston in Fife (pictured above). Disappointingly it was roped off and guarded by a spritely volunteer in a hemp tunic with a rigid smile that said, Brush against the furniture accident and I will cut you.

One of my fondest recent house-museum memories is of an evening screening of Daphne DuMaurier’s Rebecca at the Freud Museum in Hampstead of all places. It was an outdoor cinema in the garden and to get to the public toilet I had to go upstairs and pass through Freud’s study in the dark. The famous couch was there, lurking in the gloom. Unattended and inviting. Well not really. It was spring-coiled and piled high with itchy Turkish rugs, but still: a rare opportunity. I stepped over the velvet rope and sprawled out in the half dark. Closed my eyes, breathed…